


The First Five Times She Knelt

by AlphaOri



Series: The Potions Master's Pet [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chasing, Detention, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Forgive Me, Kneeling, Oral Sex, POV Hermione Granger, Punishment, Questionable Underage, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 13:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaOri/pseuds/AlphaOri
Summary: The first five times she knelt, and the first time she refused.She had reflected at some length that this punishment was almost assuredly tailor-made for her. It hit all the marks necessary to properly discipline her.But there was another side to consider – a side that her Professor hadn’t seemed to notice, and a side that Hermione had tried to put out of her mind for almost two months.She might actually enjoy it. A lot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My previous fic "What a Good Pet You Make" takes place towards the end of this, but I'm not sure how necessary it is to read that first. I hope this stands alone, let me know if it doesn't. 
> 
> I've split this into two chapters for easier reading, but won't make you wait for part 2 ;)

*   *                                                                                                                                   *   *

*                                                                                                                                         *

 

She could still feel enough in her right knee to know she needed to move it, to adjust in some manner. The edge of the stone tile was digging into just the correct part of her kneecap to send shooting pains up her thigh and down a distinct path in her calf. She could sense that if she moved much at all her knee would roll into the groove between the two stones, and she couldn’t yet tell if that would make the pain worse or not.

 

Her left knee was, mercifully, mostly numb. There was a gentle prickling feeling she associated with an appendage that had fallen asleep but remained undisturbed – the promise of that strange, shooting, stinging sensation if she would only wriggle the offending body part.

 

But she remained determinedly still, her body at its original ninety-degree angle to the ground, save her numb-and-pained lower legs. She had forced herself to stop looking at the clock around 9:29. If she were to be released in time for curfew, she would have only endured 25 or so minutes more; if not, she could be here for hours longer, and watching the seconds tick away only exacerbated the throbbing in her knees.

 

The scratching of a quill against parchment also seemed to exacerbate the throbbing, but there wasn’t much she could do to ignore it. She chanced a glance at the Professor, wondering if he’d forgotten she was even there. _At least the floor is freezing_ , she thought acerbically as he raised his eyes to hers. _Perhaps my knees will be frostbitten and fall off, and I’ll never have to do this again._

The Professor made a noise like a scoff before returning to his grading. She continued to glare daggers his way until he released her at 11:07 p.m.

 

*   *                                                                                                                                   *   *

*                                                                                                                                         *

 

She rolled her head on her neck and straightened her back, praying for any kind of satisfaction. The two small pops from her spine did little to ease her discomfort, but at least the movement had woken her up a bit. She had been perilously close to nodding off.

 

She could feel his black eyes on her, marking her movements. She kneeled as resolutely as she had before, her knees never once breaking contact with the hard floor. Apparently satisfied that she wasn’t getting one past him somehow, the relentless scratching of his quill began anew.

 

She remained stone still for a few minutes to not draw his ire before letting out a low sigh. She considered all the myriad ways she might have avoided being here, like this – again - yet couldn’t imagine any of the possible scenarios working in her favor. For all she could tell, she wasn’t even being punished for something _she_ had done.

 

She had noticed the change in Harry’s demeanor, and tried to broach the topic tactfully. She knew he and Cho had argued – he’d told her as much – so she hadn’t pushed him about the Occlumency lessons, much as she wanted to. But it was difficult not to wonder what had truly happened between her friend and her Professor, particularly when the latter’s change of demeanor was so much more disturbing than Harry’s.

 

He had been even more vindictive and cruel than usual over the past week, no small feat. The number of detentions alone had increased exponentially, and the rate at which three of the houses were losing house points was alarming to all but the Slytherins. Hermione herself had managed to squander 36 points to his foul mood, and all she’d done was remain the know-it-all she’d always been. She had only managed detention by accidentally vanishing Harry’s Invigoration Draught – an accident, for one, and something she would have thought might please the Professor.

 

And now Harry was still angry with her for not backing him up on the whole Sirius thing, though they were mercifully still on speaking terms, and she was sat in detention for the third time in her school career. _Or_ , she thought, _knelt in detention_.

 

She had never been one for trouble making, despite what Professor Snape might think. The very thought of punishment had once been her biggest nightmare, something she would go to great lengths to avoid. She had only ever earned the wrath of her teachers because the boys, Harry in particular, had hero complexes to rival Don Quixote. But her past reprimands had never even bordered on corporal punishment.

 

 _And what a strange punishment this is_ , she mused. She had spent her first kneeling detention maneuvering through anger at her Professor, annoyance at Harry (she had been loudly sticking up for him when Professor Snape assigned that detention), and worry over Umbridge’s position within the school. After enduring the hours of pain, both physical and emotional, she had left the dungeons feeling lighter and more clear-headed than she could ever remember, as if the bruising of her knees had cured some bruising of her brain.

 

 _It’s nice to have some designated quiet time to work through my problems without the boys constantly piling on,_ she thought, rolling her neck again with a satisfying crack.

 

It occurred to her suddenly that she had never heard of such a detention before, not at Hogwarts. Certainly not with Professor Snape, who seemed to prefer manual labor or emotional manipulation. What was the point of detention if it wasn’t even unpleasant? She could do with a cushion, sure, but ultimately she wasn’t having a bad time, per se. _Is this supposed to mess with my head?_

 

She chanced a quick glance at the Professor. He ignored her.

 

 _Okay, fine, I have plenty of time,_ she thought, organizing her thoughts. _Why am I being punished, and why is this the chosen punishment?_

 

The clock ticked on, oblivious to her reflections.

 

*   *                                                                                                                                   *   *

*                                                                                                                                        *

 

Hermione was having difficulty sitting still - or kneeling still, more accurately.

 

She knew she should stop wriggling about, had already noticed the pace of the quill’s scratching change. It wouldn’t be long before she had his full attention, and she wasn’t quite ready for it yet.

 

She took a deep breath and tried to settle, ignoring the itching where her knees had slid against the rough stone. She waited until the steady pace of the quill resumed before diving back into her contemplations, eyes downcast.

 

She had been so caught up in other things; between Grawp and Hagrid, Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad, and being in the midst of her O.W.L.s she hadn’t had much time to mentally work through her previous detention’s disturbing conclusions.

 

Perhaps that’s why she had found herself accidentally-purposefully running into the Professor just that morning – literally. She had imagined his outrage at being bowled over by a 16 year old before breakfast would warrant a fresh detention, but hadn’t expected to be the only one gone arse-over-heel. The bastard had managed to stay standing, still imposing, _and_ she got the detention she was after. At least it had worked, and here she knelt, with many hours to consider what she knew.

 

_Think now, Hermione. Focus._

 

She had reflected at some length that this punishment was almost assuredly tailor-made for her. It hit all the marks necessary to properly discipline her.

 

  1. _I am a busybody know-it-all who needs to be in control._
  2. _I do not take well to humiliation._
  3. _I do not sit still nor stay silent well._



But there was another side to consider – a side that her Professor hadn’t seemed to notice, and a side that Hermione had tried to put out of her mind for almost two months. She had gotten herself a fresh detention just to give it the thought it demanded, and to work out just what should be done about it.

 

_I have both sat (knelt) and stayed silent well. I have felt annoyed at most, not humiliated. I might actually enjoy not being in control._

_I might actually enjoy it a lot._

 

It was this thought that had so plagued her, no matter how many times she attempted to shove it down. She was keenly aware that, were this punishment meant to mess with her head, it was certainly working.

 

With the possibility clear in her head, and feeling as though it was a decent conclusion to come to, she turned her mind back to Professor Snape – a far more daunting train of thought.

 

He couldn’t possibly know what she now knew – that she might be a glutton for punishment after all her years of avoiding it. He couldn’t possibly know that this was, for some people, a form of foreplay. He couldn’t possibly know that her earlier wriggling was not, in fact, due to discomfort.

 

She hadn’t come unprepared, of course. Ginny had all manner of useful (if not a bit airheaded) research materials concerning all types of relationships. And Hermione knew how to discreetly ask for recommendations in bookstores and libraries – an act that might have embarrassed her at one point, but she was old enough now to be asking these sorts of questions, thank you very much.

 

Of course, the fact that she was questioning any of this in regard to one of her Professors was, probably, problematic.

 

She eyed him as slyly as she could, taking in his face and hair and body. She had never been one for schoolgirl crushes, Lockhart aside, and she certainly would never have turned her attentions to the Potions Master. But there was elegance there, one that had never escaped her notice, even as a first year. He held and moved himself with the determination of a chess player who already knew the outcome of a game. Even in his worst, most emotional moments – when facing a lupine Lupin, for example – he moved with an assuredness that belied his fear.

 

And when he was brewing, he positively danced. Hermione struggled to think of a better description, which in turn made her giggle. _The first time words have failed me_.

 

Her smirk fell as quickly as her stomach dropped when she realized he was staring her dead in the eyes. His expression was suspicious, no doubt wondering what had made her – of all things – giggle in his presence.

 

Hermione had never been one for schoolgirl crushes, just as she had never been one for impulsive acts. And yet she found herself knelt on the floor of the Hogwart’s Dungeons experiencing both in an instant. With hazel eyes locked onto black, she imagined his long, delicate, dexterous fingers weaving through her hair, wrapped around her neck, making their way down her torso…

 

The Professor’s eyes went so comically round she had to fight not to giggle again, but somehow she knew he would never forgive her if she did. She couldn’t stop her lip from quirking slightly, however.

 

The moment stretched on while her heartbeat sounded in her ears, and just as she was beginning to panic, realizing the line she had crossed, the Professor stood abruptly and made his way around his desk.

 

She was fully panicking by the time he was in front of her, keenly aware of her childish school uniform and wild hair. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

 

“Stand.”

 

She kept her eyes downcast, knowing full well his crotch was just above eye level, and made an inelegant attempt to do as he asked. Her knees disagreed with the movement and she stumbled a bit, shocked to find his hand gripping her elbow by the time she was fully erect. The flash of that specific word made her need to laugh again, but her fear turned it into a mad sounding huff.

 

As soon as she was stable on her feet he was gone. She hesitated for a moment, awkward and confused, wondering if she should let herself out, but he returned almost immediately from the storeroom.

 

“Apply this to your knees before bed, and again in the morning if they are still sore. You are dismissed.”

 

He was gone again in an instant, the door to his private chambers slamming behind him. She looked at the small tub of ointment resting in her hand. It was unlabeled, and smelled of dittany, star grass, and something she couldn’t quite place – it was clearly something he had made himself.

 

She felt a glimmer of hope root deep in her belly, so she tried very hard to tamp it out. She knew he often used his skill as a Legilimens to pick up stray thoughts, and projecting that particular thought had been a terrible idea regardless of the outcome.

 

The swooping, fluttering hope in her stomach disagreed.

 

*   *                                                                                                                                   *   *

*                                                                                                                                         *

 

Hermione had been in the Hospital Wing since the night at the Ministry, and felt she was going mad. Being trapped in a room, even a room so large, with Umbridge and Ron had tried her patience. The only reprieve was the frightened squeals she and Ron could elicit from the toad by clicking their tongues like clopping hooves, but even that had grown old quickly.

 

She was released a few days before the leaving feast, and took full advantage of her returned freedom to do post-O.W.L. revisions. The boys both treated this with their usual perplexed disdain, but it didn’t bother her as much as it once had.

 

Mostly because, in between her follow-up research on the topics she hadn’t felt completely comfortable with during their exams, she was perusing a wealth of interesting (albeit not school-related) books.

 

She wondered, not for the first time, why they had never received a more formal education on sexual health. Fourth year had seen them split into boys and girls and talked at about the dangers of heavy petting, but it was hardly informative.

 

The most she had experienced herself was some snogging and light groping with Viktor, but it hadn’t produced any, _ahem_ , results for her. She had been underwhelmed enough to assume that the intense pleasure and euphoria she’d heard rumors of were nothing more than that – rumors.

 

It wasn’t until the beginning of fifth year that she had realized what the fuss was about, and the knowledge was only revealed to her by her own right hand.

 

Now she sat in the library, ten months later, and had only recently realized that her first hands-on experimentation had followed close on the heels of her first kneel-in with Professor Snape. She hoped she could chalk it up to coincidence, but her traitorous stomach butterflies were still there, contradicting her hopes.

 

Her feelings could wait; she was adept at pushing them down for later consideration. But she was beginning to hit a roadblock in her research, and wasn’t sure what to do if the library failed her.

 

Madame Pince had helped her find the section and books she was looking for, but she wasn’t sure she could get more specific without raising the custodian’s concern. It was one thing to question one’s own changing body, but how would she explain needing to understand the desire to submit to someone else’s control – especially when it was obviously not a desire rooted in academic curiosity.

 

The Witch Weekly’s articles she had read had been more helpful than most of the books in the Library’s health and sexuality section, if only because they outnumbered the books 10 to 1. In terms of quality of content they were laughable, but at least they didn’t shy away from the more eclectic aspects of sexual desire. Ginny had been pleased as punch to provide her with every issue published over the past three years, seemingly thrilled that Hermione was finally becoming interested in “womanly matters”. _If only she knew._

 

She was beginning to feel more confident about her own desires, knowing that she wasn’t alone in them, but she was an academic at heart. Here was an area she had yet to explore, though she knew she wanted to, but the idea of acting on these impulses without the proper groundwork of understanding made her heart pound in fear.

 

Hermione closed _The Hairy Heart_ with a heavy sigh, hardly believing it hadn’t been written in the early 1900’s for all its prim and proper courting recommendations. Hogwarts didn’t seem like it was going to provide her with the answers she needed. Luckily she’d be spending a large portion of the summer at the Burrow, and she knew the eccentric second-hand bookstore in Ottery St Catchpole had a decent selection of self-help books in addition to the shadowy backroom Hermione had yet to brave.

 

She gathered her notes and placed them in an inside pocket of her bag before charming the opening shut – it wouldn’t do for this particular research to fall into the wrong hands. _Or any hands at all_ , she thought with a blush.

 

She put away all the books she had pulled and left the Library at 12 minutes to 10, knowing she could make curfew if she didn’t dawdle.

 

The halls were quiet as she made her way towards Gryffindor tower. Most students would be having a final hurrah in the Common Rooms before boarding the train for London in the morning. She wondered if this year’s final revels would be more subdued now that the Minister had openly acknowledged what Harry and Dumbledore had been insisting all year. Would the Slytherins be celebrating?

 

As her mind wandered towards the House of snakes, so it provided her with the mental image of its Head. She could almost hear his rich voice echoing through the hall – wait, she _could_ hear his voice! Her senses went on high alert as she drew closer to the sound and began making out his words.

 

“… Too late for taking points, but rest assured I will remember this… tryst… come autumn.”

 

“Yes, Professor Snape,” came two voices in unison. Hermione stopped just where the passage branched off to her left, careful not to jostle the suit of armor that guarded the corner.

 

“Be gone, now.”

 

There was the sound of quick footsteps then, leading down the hall away from where she stood. Hermione braced herself; she needed to go in that direction to reach Gryffindor’s common room, but Professor Snape stood between her and her destination. She had done an admirable job of avoiding him in one-on-one situations since her last detention, and wasn’t sure she was ready to break that lucky streak quite yet.

 

Of course it didn’t matter in the end, as those kinds of decisions were rarely hers to make.

 

“Miss Granger, why are you lurking about with only…” there was a pause as he presumably checked the time, though Hermione knew there was no clock in the passageway and he did not wear a watch. “… Three minutes, 37 seconds left to curfew?”

 

She stepped around the suit of armor and into the light of the corridor without hesitation, not wanting to draw out his annoyance.

 

“I was just on my way to Gryffindor tower, Sir.” She did not point out that he was now holding her up, with only two short hallways between them and the tower.

 

He stared at her through narrowed eyes, brows creased as she shifted her weight uncomfortably. She was just about to brave a ‘well, I’ll be on my way, then’, when he spoke, voice deep, dark, and dangerous.

 

“Let us see if you can make it there in time, Miss Granger, _without being caught_. Two minutes, 49 seconds.”

 

Hermione’s mind went blank, the phrase _without being caught_ echoing in her ears like some kind of whisper from her ancestors. The hair on the nape of her neck raised in the exact manner it had done only once before; when her parents had taken her to Australia 8 years previously, they had gone camping. In the dead of night she had been awoken by a harrowing, nightmarish sound – the sound of a single dingo howling, then another, then another – until the night had been overwhelmed with the noise of an entire pack, echoing until it seemed they were coming from every direction.

 

Had she been experiencing rational thought she’d have remembered reading about fight or flight. Instead, her mind was blank as she tore off in the opposite direction of the Potions Master. She hurled herself down the stairs she had just come up, around a corner, past a tapestry depicting a surprisingly tame Beltane celebration, through an archway that shouted “Slow down!” as she was already turning the next corner and flying up a different staircase.

 

She wasn’t thinking of where she was going, her panic taking her on the next best course to the Fat Lady’s portrait without having to pass her fearsome Professor. If she had been thinking, it might have occurred to her that he need only follow her original route to beat her there.

 

She slid around the final corner with her heart hammering against her ribs, only for it to stop short as his hands gripped her upper arms.

 

“My, my. So close… and with thirteen seconds to spare.”

 

She heaved in a great lungful of air, feeling a sudden deep shame at her own idiocy. She met his eyes cautiously, terrified of how he might humiliate her.

 

“If I wished to humiliate you, I would do so with an audience.”

 

She quickly broke her gaze from his, focusing instead on the sneer gracing his lips. _Stupid, stupid Hermione, he’s a Legilimens!_

 

“No, your humiliation is of no interest to me, at least not anymore. I found myself curious after your last detention what you would look like flushed and out of breath.”

 

The remark had the immediate effect of stealing just that. She could feel his grip on her arms loosen ever so slightly, which worried her as she felt her knees might buckle.

 

“It appears, Miss Granger, that you are now out past curfew.”

 

He removed his hands completely, though her arms burned with the memory of pressure where they had been. He took a step back, making a path between her and the portrait at the end of the hall. Hermione could see the Fat Lady starting to doze off in her frame and was thankful she wasn’t craning to listen to this strange, one-sided conversation.

 

“When you enter your dormitory, you will draw the curtains around your bed and kneel upon it for two hours. If you do not…”

 

She met his eyes as he trailed off, too stunned by his command to avoid his gaze.

 

“… I will know.”

 

He turned immediately and strode away, past the portrait and around the far corner of the passageway. Hermione watched him disappear from sight before walking forward in a haze, murmuring ‘meruimus’ to the irritated Fat Lady, ignoring all the ‘hullos’ from those still gathered in the common room, and straight up the stairs to her shared room.

 

She knelt on her bed until 4:13 in the morning, just over 6 hours, before she tumbled over, fast asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

*   *                                                                                                                                  *   *

*                                                                                                                                         *

 

Hermione’s summer had been a whirlwind of activity and contemplation. The news that Harry would one day, inevitably, face down darkest wizard in recent history had bloomed a seed of existential dread in her heart. She was concerned for Harry of course, but also for herself and Ron, as she knew they would never leave him to face his fate alone. Then there was Professor Snape, whose precarious position would undoubtedly become more dangerous as the conclusion of the prophecy drew nearer.

 

There was constant news about those who were missing or killed or threatened, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty that the Burrow was more concerned with the presence of a French woman than the loss of life and safety going on throughout the country. She also couldn’t help but agree that the Burrow was no longer as peacefully cozy as it had once been, sans Phlegm.

 

It was due to the consistent reports of these acts against Muggleborns and their sympathizers that Hermione was not allowed to simply pop down to town and peruse the used bookstore as she had hoped. She had only managed two trips the entire summer, once with the boys and once with Ginny. The trip with the boys was disastrous – she couldn’t manage to shake them long enough to get what she was after, though they had caught on quickly that she was trying to escape them. This led to questions, then teasing, then begging forgiveness when she blew up in anger.

 

The trip with Ginny had been better, but still embarrassing. Ginny had cackled with glee when she weaseled out Hermione’s goals of sexual education, pleased she wasn’t trying to get a head start on N.E.W.T.s. But once they were in the shop, perusing the self-help and relationship sections, Hermione had turned beet red at Ginny’s loud comments and giggles over every single book. She had forgotten that, for all Ginny’s experience with dating, she was still very much a young woman with a lot to learn. And she apparently hadn’t ever considered the possibility that some women might have more, _erm_ , eccentric expectations for their sexual encounters. She certainly hadn’t considered that Hermione might be one of those women.

 

In the end Hermione had abandoned her efforts, and instead dragged her friend to a Muggle clothing boutique in an effort to stifle her endless giggles. Ginny had blessedly taken to the idea and purchased several new outfits, paying back Hermione’s spent quid with sickles and knuts.

 

Hermione had purchased a few new items as well, but did not show Ginny the dark green bra and knickers set.

 

The summer had seen a rash of Order members using the Burrow as a place of information exchange. Each day had at least one member popping by to update Mr. or Mrs. Weasley on one thing or another, having a quick spot of tea, then apparating away again with a quick ‘pass it on, please!’.

 

Harry, Ron, and Ginny were all enamored with this, just as they had been at Grimmauld place, but the constant _POP!_ of apparating visitors sent Hermione into fits of annoyance. She spent quite a lot of time out in the garden, where only the occasional Quidditch game or pesky gnome could interrupt her reading.

 

And so it was in the garden that Professor Snape mostly made his appearances. He would stride from the hodgepodge house after delivering whatever message needed to be passed along, black cloak billowing behind him, and breeze straight up to Hermione no matter how hidden she was from view. He would always, every time, present her with whatever book he expected her to read before his next visit, before asking her questions about the previous loaner.

 

She answered every quiz with word-for-word responses from the text she had read, and he would sneer and insult her inability to think for herself without regurgitation of another’s ideas. She would take his berating without complaint, though she could never tell if he wanted her to or not, and then he would tell her, with fury or displeasure in his eyes, to _run_.

 

And so, even on those occasions when Hermione was moved to speak against his criticisms of her answers, she would keep her mouth shut just to hear the growled command. Each time his eyes would spark with some dark fire, she’d get an immediate elation, a sort of strange light-headedness like she was looking over the edge of a cliff and seeing the rock crumble beneath her feet. The demand – _run_ – gave her the same feeling she had had on her 9th birthday aboard the Black Hole at Alton Towers, as if she were dropped suddenly from a great height. She had cried in fear aboard the roller coaster, but in the garden of the Burrow she cried out with excitement.

 

The Professor made a total of 11 trips to the Burrow over the summer, and each time she would run through the fields surrounding the house and feel him behind her, feel him almost grasping her wrist, or waist, or hair… But when she would turn, he would be nowhere in sight. On one occasion, she had turned to not see him, only to start off again and fly right into his waiting arms. Several times he came at her from the side, and once she had run right into standing water past the boundary of the Burrow’s land while he positively bent double with silent laughter from the shore of the bog. She had been incensed that he would laugh at her, but soon beamed with pride that she had made him break up so.

 

On the last occasion, she ran back and forth across the fields and mires until she was so exhausted she collapsed beneath a twisted blackthorn, hoping it would hide her well enough.

 

She tried to slow her breath, wondering why he hadn’t swooped in yet, feeling less giddy as she regained her composure. A slight tickle ran up the back of her bare left arm, so she swiped at it, imagining a bug or leaf. Her fingers met his and he caught her hand, pulling her around so fast she almost fell over from shock. He caught her shoulders and held her before him, calm as could be, while she lost her breath all over again.

 

“Did you imagine you’d won, Miss Granger?”

 

She took a shaky breath. He always had some parting remark as their game ended, but she had never known what to say in return. Emboldened by the length of her run, and possibly by the fact that they’d played this game _eleven times now_ , she replied quietly.

 

“I win when you catch me.”

 

She couldn’t help notice how eerie it was to see the warm end-of-summer breeze move all the branches and grass to and fro while he crouched before her, gone still as a statue.

 

“Stand up, Hermione.”

 

He rose, hands still on her shoulders, as she complied. He’d never used her first name before, and the thrill it sent through her was only softened by the fear that perhaps she’d said the wrong thing.

 

“When we return to Hogwarts, we cannot do this anymore.”

 

She looked up at him, startled by the damper this put on the mood. His dark eyes gave her no answers, his expression unreadable.

 

“I didn’t think…” she stammered, but stopped to rephrase. “I know we can’t, Sir. I had just hoped not to discuss it in plain or definitive terms.”

 

He nodded, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “Nevertheless, I believe it necessary to discuss what will happen when we return to the school, so there is no misunderstanding between us.”

 

She nodded back, the corners of her mouth involuntarily turning down.

 

“Firstly, you will do as I say, when I say. The only cause for hesitation will be if you need clarification, or if my command makes you uncomfortable. If your reason for hesitation or refusal is inadequate or asinine, you will be punished.”

 

Hermione found herself holding her breath, once again thrilled with this turn of events. She nodded along in agreement until he finished, then gave him a curt “Yes, Sir.” He seemed pleased by it.

 

“Secondly, you will not mention anything about me, or this, to anyone, period. No one, do you understand?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“Good girl. Thirdly…” There was a pause while he seemed to gather this thought together. She waited patiently until he began again. “Thirdly, you will not touch me, in any capacity, while at Hogwarts.”

 

“But, Sir—“

 

“Miss Granger, I will remind you of the first rule just this once. Think carefully before you speak.”

 

Her mouth hung open for a moment before snapping shut.

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

He had left her then, apparating after a curt goodbye, and she had remained glued to the spot in contemplation until she heard Molly’s voice calling her in for dinner.

 

Returning to Hogwarts was not as much of a blight on their budding... whatever it was between them as the Professor himself was. He had not made any indication that there was anything between them at all, treating her with less notice than he ever had. He no longer reprimanded her for waving her hand in the air, and instead firmly ignored it whenever it appeared. She didn’t even run into him in the corridors, couldn’t catch his eye at meals, and when she tried to stay after one class to have a word, he was gone before the last students had finished packing their things.

 

Hermione started to notice Ron’s attentions more and more. He was forever making strange comments on his own abilities, or mentioning the fact that he had grown taller over the summer. At first she chalked it up to ‘boys will be boys’, but it became clear he was beginning to develop a crush. She wasn’t sure how this made her feel. On the one hand, she was sorely lacking in attention since the Professor had stopped acknowledging her at all, but on the other _it’s Ron!_

 

By mid-October she was frustrated beyond belief. Harry was insisting on using questionable spells from a questionable book, McLaggen was beginning to follow Hermione around with the same look Ron sometimes got, and her birthday had been a bust in the Professor Snape department. Not that she had been expecting much, but it had occurred to her, as she was sure it had to him, that she was now 17 years of age, and considered an adult witch. She wasn’t stupid – she was still his student, of course – but she had hoped for _something_ , anything that might indicate what he was thinking with his abandonment.

 

Her mood grew worse still after Katie Bell’s incident, and then the stunt Harry pulled with the Felix Felicis. The only person in a worse mood, it seemed, was Ron himself, who appeared to be irreparably offended by her lack of affection.

 

It was after a well-earned crying session, interrupted by both of the boys and Lavender bloody Brown, that she found herself storming through the castle in a fury. All her focus was on Ron and his stupid, petty need to hurt her, all because she didn’t care for him in ‘that way’, when she walked headlong into the Professor.

 

He looked down at her with a stern, unflinching glare. She couldn’t stop herself – she burst out crying again.

 

She tried to hide her face, ashamed that she was wasting any emotion on Ron at all, and filled with self-hatred that the Professor was getting even a slight glimpse of what _he himself_ had done to her. She felt his hand wind its way to the back of her neck, and then he was steering her along the corridors without speaking a single word.

 

By the time they reached the dungeons, her blurred vision had cleared a bit and she was trying to wipe her face dry, breath hitching on the occasional sob.

 

He led her to the space before his desk before stopping, and quietly commanding, once again, “Kneel.”

 

She didn’t hesitate, and didn’t refuse. She knelt down quickly, hiccupping quietly as she wiped her face with her sleeve.

 

The only change in the situation was her position. She sat back on her heels, not upright as usual. If he noticed or cared, he said nothing, instead sitting behind his desk reading a plain-covered book.

 

The clock on the wall read 8:47. She knelt there without a word or movement until 9:32, when he set down the book and came around to lean against the desk before her.

 

“What had you so upset, pet?”

 

She jumped a bit, taken aback by the movement in her heart at the word. It felt distinctly like the turning of a valve she’d been trying very hard to keep tight lest it flood the whole of her.

 

“Why haven’t you spoken to me since summer?” She blurted, meeting his eyes.

 

He sighed heavily, and she was at once struck, forcibly, with the fact that he was a very mortal man more than twice her age.

 

“Never mind, I… I didn’t mean to…”

 

“No, Hermione, it is a very reasonable question. I assumed that distance would be the best way to contain myself. I did not mean for it to hurt you.”

 

She nodded, brows knit. “Then why make the rules in the first place?”

 

He breathed deeply, holding it while he considered. “The first two, out of some wishful thinking,” then, more quietly, “Or to cover my arse.”

 

She tried to stifle a grin, but his expression remained thoughtfully concerned.

 

“The third, because I know my own weaknesses.”

 

She considered this for a moment before asking, “Am I a weakness?”

 

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, pet, you most assuredly are. It was never my intention to afford you any affection, and yet…” He fixed her with a piercing look while she held her breath, the newly loosened valve in her heart stuttering against the impending torrent. He sighed again before continuing. “Well, you’ve put me in a difficult position, to say the least.”

 

She shifted on her heels. “This is my fault?”

 

He huffed out an irritated scoff, crossing his arms across his chest. “You haven’t helped. This was originally meant to be a punishment, if you recall.”

 

She frowned at him, thinking back. “Well it was, at first. But you should have realized that might change.”

 

He let out a genuine laugh at this. “I should have realized that Hermione Granger, insufferable know it all and dyed-in-the-wool good girl, was going to take to discipline like a grindylow to water? That you would take to _me_ at all?”

 

She opened her mouth to retort, but his tone made her pause. There was something vulnerable in that last statement, and it sent a quick shot of pain through her. She shut her mouth, overtaken with a sad sense of finality. She could see where this conversation was going and she wasn’t sure she’d survive to the end of it. But she realized suddenly what her heart had been trying to tell her brain for so many weeks.

 

She could hex herself for her own pigheaded inattention to her emotions. She’d spent so much time wondering what on earth the Professor could see in her, why he’d want this relationship with her, what this relationship even was. Pushing down her feelings, it seemed, had not been the correct course of action.

 

Now here he stood, obviously growing dour in her silence, wondering what _she_ could possibly want with _him_. And as her walls fell and her heart flooded, she began to put a name to what she felt. What she had begun to feel when he told her to stand and gave her the salve that soothed her knees. The feeling that grew when he told her “ _run”_ , and had only rooted itself into her as she knelt on her bed afterwards. The feeling that made her gut lurch like a roller coaster as she raced through meadows, never knowing which direction he would come from. The same feeling that was now crushing her under its weight and deafening her with her own heartbeat.

 

She stood up a bit too quickly and pitched towards him. He caught her elbows to steady her, clearly preparing to question her sudden movement, so she met his mouth with hers before he could.

 

The first moment seemed to stretch on endlessly. His lips gave way to her so easily she felt as though all of history had led to this. Perhaps it had.

 

The kiss was chaste and over too quickly, but they paused as they parted, a breath away from one another. Her hands had found his chest, seemingly of their own accord, and she slid them down as their eyes met. She could feel his ribs under the toned muscle there, the lean body of a man who was in excellent shape and mediocre health. She could feel his heart beating, too, a drumming rhythm as fast as hers.

 

He stared into her eyes as if he could see through her ( _maybe he can_ ), and that burning ember she so coveted sparked in their depth.

 

She spoke before he could, terrified of what he might say.

 

“We can’t continue this, I know. Not now, while I’m still a student and you… While you remain in a precarious position. But I think you should know – I think you _need_ to know – “

 

His hands went to her face and he kissed her again, mid-sentence, fiercely. It lacked all the softness of the first, and she felt herself ignite with some new, terrifying, exhilarating heat. Her whole body burned as he opened her mouth with his, his fingers winding through her hair, his interest pressing hard against her lower abdomen - right above the part of her that seemed to be the kindling for her internal blaze.

 

He kissed her thoroughly, roughly, like a man long-lost in a desert taking his first gulp from a fresh, cool spring. When he finally pulled back he stayed close, his lips whispering against hers as his words penetrated her fuzzy mind.

 

“Hermione Granger, when I am free, you will have all of me. You will, in fact, be hard pressed to rid yourself of my attentions.”

 

She sighed against his mouth, the flame fluttering wildly within her. “I’ll do anything you ask if you make that a promise.”

 

He beamed a real, genuine smile before placing one last kiss at the corner of her mouth. “I promise, pet. When we are free.”

 

*

 

As she left the dungeons that night, she glanced back to see him one last time. He was already turned away from her, removing long strands of memories from his mind and securing them in small, unlabeled vials.

 

She cried herself to sleep for the next three nights, but couldn’t discern whether the tears were born of despair or joy.

 

*   *                                                                                                                                   *   *

*                                                                                                                                         *

 

They both kept their distance well over the following weeks, but each heated look he gave her left her furiously unfulfilled. She had never used so many cooling charms in her life, trying to keep her libido in check, and her knickers were beginning to get threadbare from all the friction.

 

She had wondered if his removal of memories had blocked all thought of her, but the spark of attraction was always in his gaze when their eyes met. Whatever parts of their affair he was hiding from any who might use Legilimens against him had not caused him to forget her at least. She never risked asking him outright, but she could only assume he was modifying his recollections to be acceptable for a student-teacher relationship.

 

She didn’t risk asking him anything, in fact. Each moment of brief eye contact felt like burning alive, and she didn’t want to give him any more memories he would have to lose.

 

Still, it was difficult to not pine for the Potions Master when she knew he wanted her as badly as she wanted him. Hermione had blessedly found easy distractions in chastising Harry for _continuing_ to use that blasted book, in Ron whom she was avidly avoiding, and in Cormac, who was clearly interested in her.

 

McLaggen had been following her around for weeks, doggedly dropping innuendoes into every small conversation he could weasel out of her. When he mentioned Slughorn’s upcoming hols party, she took the bait with very little thought. Really her only fleeting thought had been _I wonder how the Professor will punish me for saying yes_.

 

As the night neared she grew more nervous. It was definitely a bad decision to goad the Professor in any way, but she _missed_ him. She missed his sonorous voice commanding her to _kneel._ She was beginning to feel she could come from the word alone, if she could only get him to say it.

 

She had worn a terrible maroon dress that made her feel very pre-teen, but optimistically included her dark green bra and knickers underneath. She knew it was a terrible idea and would probably come to nothing, but better to be prepared.

 

The tone in which he had whispered “ _what a good pet you make_ ” had turned her on in a way she had never experienced before. She should have known that praise – particularly from a source as barren as the Professor – would fill her with ecstasy.

 

If her plan had been to rile him up, it had certainly worked. She had only meant to prove to him that she was, indeed, a very good pet - or at least that she would be once they were able to explore that dynamic. Instead she had seemed to ignite in him the same fire that had almost consumed her when last they were alone. Except that his fire seemed to feed on anger as much as it did attraction. She had crawled before him (and the rest of the partygoers, yes) for mere moments before he had pulled her up to her feet, furiously breathing in her ear, “Detention. Tomorrow, seven p.m.”

 

He must have known she wasn’t going to the Burrow with Ron and Harry, though she wasn’t sure how she felt about his insight into her life. She certainly didn’t want him to think anything about her based on outside appearances – what if he thought Ron’s affections were reciprocated? She would simply die if he did.

 

Ultimately she was ashamed of herself. She had made a promise - or at least agreed to a promise that he had made - and she had intended to keep it. What small elation she had felt from sparking that desire in him was now overshadowed by the knowledge that she had pushed him and tested his resolve, and they absolutely could not afford to be exposed. She revisited his comment that she was a weakness to him – she understood it, now. She had never felt so weak in her entire life.

 

The day after the party, the day of her detention, was filled with the bustling of students preparing to leave the castle for Christmas. She spent most of her morning saying goodbyes to those she was still on speaking terms with, including many she didn’t even consider friends, just to fill the time. The afternoon she spent in the library, though she couldn’t retain a single word she read.

 

By the evening she was feeling sick to her stomach. She pushed her dinner about her plate after only a few bites, despondency robbing her of her appetite.

 

As she made the trek from the great hall to the dungeons, she braced herself for a difficult apology.

 

_I am so sorry, Professor. I let my emotions get the best of me. You made a promise to me, and by virtue of accepting it I should have contained myself. Missing you is no excuse, wanting you is no excuse._

 

Her mood grew darker as she descended, and by the time she reached the Potions classroom she was positively miserable. She knocked lightly on the door, which swung open at once to admit her before slamming closed behind her, the bolt sliding home with a clunk.

 

The Professor was standing in front of his desk, all dark eyes and swirling robes, the absolute picture of the stern Potions Master he was thought to be. Hermione walked forward timidly, preparing to begin her speech, when he cast a silencing charm on her without warning. She blinked at him in questioning confusion.

 

“Kneel, Miss Granger.”

 

His voice was dangerous, barely masking his anger. For a brief moment she felt a shadow of fear pass through her, but it was quickly replaced by her own fury.

  
She shook her head. _No._

 

He gave her a look of incredulity before his expression darkened further.

 

“ _Now._ ”

 

She took a deep breath, furious at her inability to speak. She met his eyes in defiance, her brain whirling through livid thoughts.

 

_I came here to apologize you self-righteous ass, because I did a dumb thing and I regret it, and now I can’t even say I’m sorry?! I wasn’t thinking, clearly, and all I wanted to do was please you - after all it was YOU who said “I should order you to crawl”, and you can’t possibly understand what that did to me, after being so distant for so long, and I KNOW that we agreed to wait, and I KNOW it’s still the only thing we can do, but I LOVE YOU, dammit, and how am I supposed to pretend everything’s fine when I can’t go a day without imagining your hands on me or your lips on mine, or your mouth on my –_

“Sit, Miss Granger. Here.”

 

Her mind went curiously blank at the command, her confusion back with a vengeance. He stepped aside and motioned to the dark wood of his desk. She hesitated, eyeing the surface, which was currently clear of its usual quills, vials, and parchment.

 

He waited patiently, clearly unwilling to repeat the command. She stepped forward until she was next to him, eyes still glued to the mahogany. She turned an enquiring eye to him, but his only response was the quirking of one brow.

 

She turned and sat on the edge of the desk warily, as if it might be a trap. He took a step and turned, directly in front of her, before forcibly pushing her back onto the desk. She would have squeaked in surprise had she a voice.

 

She didn’t dare sit up, but watched with wide, almost scared eyes as he stood before her.

 

“I find myself unable to deny you what you want, pet.”

 

One moment he was stood there at the end of her knees while she gazed up at him in confusion, the next he abruptly began to kneel before her. Her head lifted as she followed the movement, unsure yet exhilarated as his eyes danced with the beloved fire she could feel mirrored between her legs.

 

Once he was knelt before her on the ground, he lifted his hands to her knees and gently guided her legs open. She took a shuddering breath as her body was overcome with tension. She could feel her legs quaking under his hands as he slid them up her thighs. She tried to sit up to follow his hands with her eyes, only to find some wordless magic pushing her back into freshly charmed pillows beneath her. She was propped up enough that she could see everything, and suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She was about to motion to him to wait, or stop altogether, when his hands lifted her skirt to the bottom of her knickers and he froze.

 

“Hermione…” he breathed softly, like a wish. Their eyes met, hers still filled with panic and his filled with all-consuming lust. He must have seen her distress. “Don’t be afraid, pet. You are perfect. These - _This_ is perfect.”

 

His fingers ghosted along her center, and she shuddered at the sensation. His free hand lifted her skirt up and she realized what had caused him pause; she was still wearing the dark green underwear she had worn the night before. She glanced at him again. _I forgot…_

 

He smirked, truly pleased. “I’m glad you did.”

 

With no further warning he pulled them down the length of her legs. She slammed her knees shut, petrified at the thought that he might have seen anything. He still had a serene look on his face as he placed her knickers gently to the side.

 

“Open, Hermione. Let me see you.”

 

She wanted to shake her head no for a moment, but she saw the regard in his expression, and felt overwhelmed. Her own embarrassment faltered as he looked at her like she was the answer to every question he’d ever had.

 

She slowly relaxed her muscles, spreading her legs before him.

 

He kept his eyes on her most private place as he turned his head and kissed her knee, first the right, then the left. He began a slow, agonizing trail up her inner thighs, up one leg for several moments before switching to the previous, never taking his eyes off her center.

 

She felt herself shaking, whether from nerves or anticipation she wasn’t sure. As he reached the apex of his ascent, his eyes met hers, a question there. She could only nod gently, her breath shuddering heavily. He gave her a small smile, and then kissed her lips.

 

What reservations she had felt evaporated like steam into the heat rolling through her. His hot, soft mouth moved across her skin as if it was meant for nothing else. He was gentle and deliberate, as if he were mapping her for the first time with every intention of revisiting in the future with an atlas.

 

She was in awe of the sensation, despite her own explorations, until he hit a spot that should have been familiar yet felt like first contact. He flicked his tongue lightly over her clit before carefully sucking it between his lips. She trembled and let out a silent moan, marveling that this could feel so different from her own ministrations. His finger met his mouth at her opening, and she could feel her heart skip as it ran between her folds, testing her enthusiasm.

 

She would have cried out as his finger entered her, had she had use of her own voice. She wanted to scream, _Yes, thank you, yes!_ as the new awareness of her anatomy swept through her. She reached her hands down to him, moved her fingers through his hair in an effort to make his eyes meet hers, but the action caused him to moan against her, which caused her, in turn, to silently wail and collapse back again.

 

He slowed his mouth as she regained some composure, grinning up at her with a self-satisfied smirk. She met him with a bewildered and bedraggled expression, unwilling to care how disheveled she must appear. She wondered for a moment if he thought she had come, and was wondering how best to convey _Don’t stop!_ without seeming rude, when he made his move.

 

Hermione had plenty of experience with masturbation, but she had not spent much time away from her clitoris. Once she learned to make herself come with external stimulation, there seemed little reason to explore further. After all, the few times she’d delved, _ahem_ , deeper than that, the sensation hadn’t been as exciting as it had been embarrassing and messy.

 

_You fool, Hermione,_ she’d think to herself later. _Shouldn’t have given up so easily._

 

Severus Snape, her professor, a man twice her age, dreaded bat of the dungeons, ex-Death Eater and spy for the Order, crooked his finger inside of her and she came like an exploding inferno.

 

He continued to gently kiss her as she struggled to breath and control her spasms. When she was finally breathing in gulps rather than shaking sobs he stood and wrapped his long fingers around her throat. She was momentarily startled until his mouth slammed against hers, and she marveled at the taste – _that’s me!_ – and the emotion that overwhelmed her as he poured his affection into the kiss.

 

As he drew back, his eyes on her kiss-swollen lips, she felt his erection hot against her core and squeezed his hips with her thighs. He groaned softly, lip quirking into a lopsided smile as he ground against her.

 

She smiled back, her mind hazy in post-orgasm bliss. _I could do this forever,_ she thought, _Again and again and again until I die, happy and fulfilled._

 

He slowed the movement of his hips against her, his hand tightening ever so slightly at her throat.

 

“Again… Forever. Would you, love?”

 

Her smile fell slightly at the word, the fear of possible loss piercing her heart. The thought of it – having his love, losing his love – it cut through her soul like a thousand tiny daggers. But she nodded, motioning to her throat. The hand he still held there wandlessly released the silencing spell.

 

“If you’d have me, Sir.”

 

He went still, his thumb tracing the edge of her jaw as he looked for something in her eyes.

 

“Don’t I, already?”

 

She beamed at him, her breath hitching and her eyes welling as she let the love she felt for him flow free for the first time.

 

“Yes, Severus. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short idea around 2,000 words that I sat down to edit before posting.  
> Now it's almost 9,500 words, somehow became a 5-to-1 (I'm a sucker for tropes), yet too long to be effective as one in my personal opinion. I blame this solely on all the nice people who left sweet comments on my previous "Pet" piece and got my brain whirling with ideas for story expansion. 
> 
> I refer to Snape as a Legilimens several times, but I feel like, in a post-Fantastic Beasts world, I should make it clear I don't headcanon him as a natural like Queenie is. I imagine he's just so damn good at it that he can cast it wandlessly, wordlessly, and without much intention. Though Harry himself notices Snape's uncanny ability to know what he's thinking in the very first book, so I wouldn't argue with anyone who disagrees.
> 
> I've edited this several times over and am still not happy with the current draft, but I'm tired of reading it over and over so here it is. I'm hoping the formatting is the worst of all of the issues, but please do send any corrections my way and I'll get around to fixing this up at some point. Thanks for reading!


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